


The One-Eyed Man is King

by xzombiexkittenx



Series: In the Kingdom of the Blind [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, dub-con bordering on non-con, really bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing is Believing- English Proverb<br/>El catches up with Sands and so do the CIA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One-Eyed Man is King

**Author's Note:**

> Watch the warnings!

Thankfully the bar cum club was right next to the motel, which meant that Sands had no problems finding it. It would have taken someone deaf, dumb, blind and stupid not to find it, seeing how much noise was pouring out though the open door, to say nothing of the stench of beer and sweat that hung in the air.

Sands had decided he had two options. One, lie there and bitch and moan about the hand fate had dealt him. Two, get up and get stinking drunk.

He had picked the latter of the two. He would not just lie down and let Mexico kick him in the balls, whore-bitch that she was. He may have lost his eyes, but everything else still worked fine and he would not let Mexico take the rest from him as well. 

“Fucking women,” Sands muttered as he made his way carefully through the door.

For a Thursday night it was awfully fucking busy, voices raised up over the music in near shouts. The kind of loud where you have to get right up next to someone’s ear before they can hear you. It hit Sands like a slap in the face and he wondered at the wisdom of going into a place so saturated with noise that he couldn’t pick one sound out from another. That said, he’d had a gun in his head not five minutes ago and he was feeling reckless.

He eased his way through an invisible forest of lit cigarettes, drinks held in drunken hands, and women who would slap him if they thought he was brushing by them the wrong way. Then people were pushing against him, gyrating wildly and that would be the dance floor, Sands assumed, which explained the appalling music assaulting his senses. He would have bet his bottom dollar that Lorenzo would have liked it; it was the same sort of crap that he always played on the radio, no taste bean-fucker that he was.

Sands’ mouth thinned into a hard line. Lorenzo wasn’t there, any more than El was.

“Why the Christ did we agree to this?” Sands sulked, hands wrapped around a warm bottle of beer, slouched unhappily in one of those little alcoves that bars liked to provide.

El slung his arm around Sands’ shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. //It’s his birthday, gatito. Let him have his fun.//

Sands shoved at El’s arm, not really putting any effort behind it. “You do know this is about as close to my idea of hell as you can get?”

Lorenzo trying to make him dance, the gun tucked between them, digging into the hard planes of Lori’s stomach, and El telling Sands to be nice and Sands cussing him out. A hard, quick fuck in the bathroom, Sands biting down on his own hand to keep from making any sort of noise and El half drowning him in those kisses. El sitting on the lid of the toilet and Sands squirming on his lap, still clothed, sweaty and smoky and so damned dirty, and he just didn’t care.

Sands clamped down on that memory, mouth twisted in disgust. He did not need to be remembering shit like that now. It was over. Dead. Buried and rotting. Only it wasn’t. He hadn’t shot El. He had walked, left the chance to crawl back, tail between his legs, if this whole independence thing went belly up. Only he knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

He shoved his way towards where he assumed the bar was, using his elbows and cane without hesitation. Fuck being careful. If he got the crap kicked out of him, so be it. He wasn’t sure he even cared any more.

The CIA had kicked it out of him in basic training. Over. And over. And over. Until he was hard and sharp and unbreakable. He had given as good as he had got though, and came out on top. Agent Sands. Someone to think twice about messing with.

Ajedrez had kicked it out of him when she had sold him out and cost him his eyes. She was dead.

El had kicked it out of him. Bruises on bruises. Split lips from sharp teeth, chafed wrists from restraints, finger shaped bruises, bite marks, the lingering pain where he’d been sucker punched, the soreness of his jaw from being pistol-whipped. The ache in his ass, the needle tracks from the morphine, the slow, tired weariness that seemed embedded, ingrained even, into the marrow of his bones. Or what was left of the marrow that Mexico hadn’t sucked out. 

And what had he done about it?

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Because he had liked it. That was probably the most galling thing of all. That he had not risen above it, not fought tooth and nail for his self-esteem, his pride, his very soul. No. He had provoked it, given and given because somehow that had felt better than the alternative. The alternative being…

Sands paused for a moment. Well that was interesting. He didn’t really know what the alternative would have been. Falling apart in El’s arms, pushed down and well-fucked. How else could the whole scenario have gone? When all you have is a hammer, all the problems start to look like nails.

“Tequila,” he snapped at the bartender and waited for the sound of glass hitting the sticky bar top. “No, screw that, just give me the bottle.”

*~*~*~* 

El was tired. 

His feet hurt, his head ached, his stomach was still doing somersaults and, to top it off, he was hungry.

He thought of Sands out there alone, trying to order food off a menu he couldn’t see. Trying to navigate a strange city he knew nothing about and had no one to tell him about. He thought of the way that Sands would whimper in the night. A sound that had nothing to do with the way El held him and everything to do with his lost eyes and the pain that still sometimes flared up.

His stomach growled its displeasure. 

The way Sands would hiss at him, how feline that man could be with the mewling, and purring, and the way he would rub up against El, demanding to be stroked and petted, hands on his hair and belly. The man couldn’t just speak, oh no, he could snark, bitch, drawl with irony, he could do sarcasm, and anger, and bitterness. Sands could never just say anything. He had to bring it to life.

The same way he had brought El to life again.

Kicking and screaming, mind you. If there was anything that El had thought he didn’t want, it was to be brought to life again. He had been content to return to the guitar town and waste away the remainder of his life creating instruments that only served to needle old wounds and bitter memories. When it was Sands’ fingernails needling into him, and the only music in the room was the sound of Sands’ whimpers and moans, drawn out as surely as notes from a guitar, that was something different. Something that filled the spaces the bullet to his hand had left.

El glared down at his stomach, as if by sheer willpower he could make it be silent and perhaps even lead him to Sands.

It growled again and, with a sigh, El headed towards the nearest restaurant.

He walked out two minutes later, feeling sick. Too hungry not to eat. Too nauseous to choke anything down.

*~*~*~* 

“He’s eating a taco.”

Robson rolled his eyes. “That’s not a taco.”

Balrow gave him a look that conveyed how much he wished Robson was six feet under for even daring to make a comment on that. “I don’t give a good goddamn what it is, Robson, and if you think that- oh fuck, he’s leaving.”

They feigned nonchalance when the Mexican walked out - stormed out rather- past them, fist clenched around the handle of his guitar case and the chains on his pants ringing death for whoever thought to get in his way.

“I guess the tacos aren’t so good in these parts,” Robson said with a smirk. “Or the enchiladas.”

Balrow gave him the finger.

They trailed after the guitar-fighter for a while. It was incredibly obvious that he knew they were following him and that they knew that he knew. Apparently no one cared. Then he stopped, threw up in a trashcan, wiped his mouth and continued.

Balrow raised an eyebrow at Robson, who was trying to make little cutouts in a newspaper for eyeholes. Just for shits and giggles, because he could, because this was more of a game than a tail and the whole thing was really fucking ridiculous.

“You think our man is all right?”

Robson shrugged. “Who gives a crap? So long as he takes us to Sands so we can get out of this hellhole of a country I don’t really care if he’s dying of food poisoning.” 

Balrow nodded thoughtfully. “You think he’s nervous?”

The other agent gave that due consideration. “Not about us, that’s for damn sure.” He lit a cigarette with matches filched from the last bar they’d passed by. “Who knows, maybe the crazy fucker is worried about Sands.” They looked at each other and cracked up, Robson snorting smoke out of his nose in mirth. “Jesus,” he choked out between gasps for air. “Someone actually worried about Sands. That’ll be a cold day in hell.”

Balrow smirked, calming himself a little faster than Robson. “Oh you know, maybe under it all he’s a really nice guy. Likes kittens, and rainbows and raindrops on the fucking roses and has found someone to share his joie de vive with.”

Robson shook his head, too busy trying to breathe through his laughter to comment for several moments. When he recovered he gave Balrow a sardonic look. “Sometimes I do wonder though…”

“You think?” Balrow’s smirk turned into a slight downturn of his lips.

Robson shrugged. “You never know right? If they’ve had him for this long, between a homicidal whack-job with a guitar case full of guns and the closest thing the CIA will admit this side of a psychopath…” He shrugged again. “I just don’t want to clean up any sort of emotional crap, Stockholm syndrome or not.”

*~*~*~* 

Lorenzo sipped at his beer. He was tired, bored and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sands. Not even one little hint, not a dead body, not a whisper of a gringo with no eyes. Nothing, nada, zilch. But the beer was good and the woman he was flirting with was attractive and so, he was content.

There was no way that he was going to be the one to find Sands anyway.

He smiled at the girl on his right and slid his hand a little further up her thigh.

*~*~*~* 

Fideo was drunk.

Part of him felt guilty for not going after Sands, but he was of the opinion that if you let something go it would come back if things were meant to be. True, El hadn’t exactly let Sands go. More of a midnight escape, but then again, Sands hadn’t been a prisoner. 

Was Sands right to leave without warning or reason? Was El right to follow?

He didn’t know.

*~*~*~* 

Sands let the stranger shove him down on the bed. He was too drunk to stand upright anyway, and at least this way the room didn’t feel like it was spinning quite so much.

Delicate hands pushed him down, pulling at his shirt, a body straddling him, pinning him in place. //Take off your glasses.//

//Fuck yourself. The glasses stay on.// Sands shoved at the girl, partly drunk, partly irritated, partly just bored and desperate to fuck so he could sleep without dreaming. //Get the fuck up.//

Once free to move his limbs without restraint, Sands proceeded to undress himself, guns going into a neat pile next to the heap of his clothing. Next to him, also kneeling on the bed, the stranger did likewise. Sands wondered if the girl looked anything like how she sounded and how she felt. Maybe this girl was desperate, or drunk and horny, or maybe she was ugly as all hell and that’s why she’d followed Sands to his room for a nameless fuck. Sands had to wonder if he actually cared and found that he didn’t. Not with this much tequila in him.

The copulation was nice. Bland as the word, but not terrible, she was soft and smelt nice under the booze. It all went as it should, Sands too drunk to feel much, pain, or pleasure, or even disappointment when they finished in silence and sweat. The sunglasses stayed on and, when it was over, the girl left without so much as a goodbye. So long and thanks for the sex.

Sands lay on the bed, feeling tired and a little bit disgusted with himself and the whole situation.

If it hadn’t been enough with El than it really wasn’t even close to that now. Sure, he had got what he wanted - enough liquor to rot his gut and a quick fuck to help him sleep - but it didn’t feel right. He groaned softly and rolled onto his side, scooping his clothing and guns off the floor and dressing himself again. He had a sneaking suspicion that his shirt was on inside out, but he had ripped the tag out long ago in a fit of pique when it kept scratching the back of his neck, and he couldn’t really tell any more.

It was a change though. He couldn’t remember the last time his clothing had remained completely intact after a quickie with El. Normally getting dressed again involved lazing about on the bed while El sewed buttons back on, or re-stitched a sleeve.

Sands slipped his jacket on and hefted his cane, shifting from foot to foot. He didn’t feel stiff or sore and that was another indication that the evening hadn’t gone as he might have hoped. He needed someone to nail him to the mattress, not gently, not carefully, and not drunkenly. Damnit, but a large part of the buzz had been worn off by exertion and boredom. 

He sighed and headed back out into the night again; maybe if he drank enough coffee he wouldn’t need to sleep.

*~*~*~* 

El pushed his way into the crowd. He hunched his shoulders and slouched down. He muttered apologies and used his guitar case to clear a path. A path that closed behind him. Like Moses out of Egypt, he thought with a touch of irony. Out of Egypt and into the desert. That was him alright. Looking for Sands.

He rolled his eyes at his own terrible metaphor and kept walking.

*~*~*~* 

Balrow stopped and scanned the crowd. “Oh shit.”

Robson ground his teeth as yet another passerby jostled him in a direction he didn’t want to go. “I fucking hate crowds,” he complained. “Too fucking short by half…What the crap? Why are we stopping?”

“Do you see him?”

“Of course not you fucker,” Robson made little height measuring movements to compare his stature to Balrow’s. “I can’t see shit.” He winced in realization and jabbed Balrow with an accusing finger. “Tell me you haven’t lost the jingling motherfucker. Tell me you know where he is.”

Balrow cursed, grabbed Robson by the sleeve, and started dragging him back through the crowd.

*~*~*~* 

//…Fucking crazy bastard.// 

The girl was drunk, talking too loud and standing directly in El’s way. With the way that the crowd was spilling out of the bar and into the street, this one obnoxious little tart was making life a little more difficult for El than he really appreciated at the time.

//Covered in bruises. Head to fucking toe, like someone had beat the crap out of him, only like…y’know, like he hadn’t fought back.//

El casually bumped his guitar case against the girl’s legs and she stumbled, moving a little but not really enough to make a space for both El and his case.

It didn’t stem her conversation, seemingly directed at a guy almost as drunk as she was. //And the weirdest thing was…get this…he wouldn’t take his fucking sunglasses off. I mean it’s pitch fucking black out here and not like it was any lighter in there…Crazy white bastard.//

This time El didn’t prod her with the case. This time El grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her close so they were nose to nose.

//Where did you meet this man?//

The girl struggled, a pathetic attempt at sobriety. //Get the hell off!// She shoved at El, not moving either of them an inch. //Christ, we were in the cheapass motel next door. Get off me, fucker.//

El let go and shoved past her. Already tottering on too high heels, she fell down. He didn’t care.

*~*~*~* 

Sands had a gun in his hand when he opened the door. He stood, framed in the doorway, the light behind him darkening his form until he appeared like a walking specter. Every muscle in his body looked tense enough to snap. There was a dangerous tilt to his chin and a tiredness to the way he stood. Abruptly he relaxed and pocketed the gun. “I didn’t know they taught lock-picking at wherever it is that they train you motherfucking mariachi.” He shut the door, shucking his jacket off, dropping it on the floor with a thud, indicating just how many guns he was actually carrying. 

El stood, rising from his seat on the bed. Sands slumped a little more, knowing the room still reeked of sex and weak, stale fear and apathy. The kind of feelings derived from being so bone weary that any other emotions become too much like effort to even consider. Sands sighed and fished a packet of cigarettes out of his jeans.

“You know how hard it is to drink coffee in this fucking town when you can’t tell the sugar from salt and the under-taste sucks so bad that drinking it black is enough to make you want to retch? Christ on a radioactive dinosaur, is it too much to ask for a decent cup of java?” El didn’t reply but Sands didn’t expect him to, so he continued. “So, you found me. I mean, I would have covered my tracks but it’s kind of hard to do that when you can’t see where they are to cover them.”

“You are not an easy man to find.”

Sands shrugged and lit his cigarette. “And yet here you are, not twenty-four hours later.” Smoke trickled out of his nose and mouth, white-gray curling up into his hair and framing his face.

“Why did you leave?”

Sands shrugged again. “You didn’t want me to.” Lank strands of hair slid into his face and he wished he’d had a shower.

El’s footsteps echoed in the hollow little room. “Do you want me to leave?” He stood close enough that Sands could feel the body heat radiating from him.

Sands ducked his head down, not because he was ashamed, but because he had forgotten to pack his toothbrush and his breath was rank with drink, and smoke and cheap food. In fact he just generally smelt bad. “Look what you’ve turned me into,” Sands’ voice was a hoarse, angry whisper. “I don’t need you to take care of me.” He would have been hard pressed to say who he was trying to convince.

“I know.” El closed the gap between them, cupping Sands’ cheeks in his hands, gently forcing Sands to face him. 

Sands simply stood there, cigarette burning away in his hand. “Don’t.” He made a face, all furrowed brow and pursed lips. “I need a shower.”

El smoothed back a strand of dirty hair but let go. “I don’t mind.”

“Well I do,” Sands snapped, taking a shaky drag of his cigarette. “You wanna know something? I showed some kid nice enough to pick up a hitchhiker my face and he just about drove the car off the road he was so horrified. I shot him, right in the head. Not for what he did, mind you, just to cover up what I could, and because I could. You wanna know something else? I fucked someone here, a girl. In this room. On that bed.” He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Without all that kinky-ass bullshit you seem so very fond of.”

“Did it make you feel better?” 

An ungentlemanly snort was El’s reply. “Christ on crack, El. What do you think? You think I like being told where I can go, what I can do? Do you really think I enjoy being your…Jesus fuck, they only took my eyes, not my goddamn balls as well.” He turned away, leaning his head on the doorframe, a laugh shaking shoulders that were too thin. “And god damn you, you dog-eating jackshit, no, it didn’t make me feel better.” The tremors continued, shaking Sands into a hysterical giggling fit.

El sighed and walked towards the little room off the bedroom. “I’ll start a bath.”

Sands turned, fast as quicksilver, and grabbed onto El, cigarette falling unheeded to the floor. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.” The laughter was gone now, leaving him cold and angry. “You did this to me, El. This shit-sucking mess is all your fault. I never asked you to fuck me, to pull all this co-dependence, domineering bullcrap.”

El knocked Sands’ hands away, grabbed him by the upper arms, and shoved him hard up against the door. One hand tangled into Sands’ hair, pulling his head back uncomfortably far, exposing his throat, whilst the other roughly tugged at his jeans, jerking the button free and shoving them down as far as El could get them to go, one handed. Sands struggled, but his arms were trapped by El’s body, and in such close proximity he couldn’t get enough space between them to kick or knee El either. 

“Goddamnit! This is exactly the kind of shit I’m talking about, you bean-shitting goat-fucker.” Sands gasped in apparent discomfort as El bit down on his throat, hard enough to draw blood.

El abruptly stepped back. Sands slid a little ways down the wall and he was visibly trembling. Then El put his hand on the growing erection in Sands’ boxers and gave one not-so gentle squeeze that made Sands make a sound that was half-moan and half-whimper. “I never asked you to like this so much.” El’s voice was cold as a year old corpse. He stalked off to the bathroom and the sound of water running was the only sound in the apartment other than Sands’ harsh breathing.

Sands yanked his jeans back up, spitting curses. His hands were shaking and as much as he wanted to say it was from anger, the hard-on he had wouldn’t let him play that little game of denial for very long. He trailed after El into the bathroom.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Sands said finally, arms folded over his chest.

El sighed. “I was making a point.” He put his hands on the hem of Sands’ shirt and lifted just a little. “Now do you want this bath or not?”

Sands slapped El’s hands away with a huff of irritation. “I can undress myself you know.” He sounded petulant even to his own ears. 

“I know.” There was a hint of a smile in El’s voice. “But I’ve always liked doing it for you.” 

Sands stood there and let El strip him of his clothing, slow and careful. His mouth and eyebrows were twisted up like he was in pain. “This is so fucking pathetic,” he sneered. He let El guide him to the edge of the bath and climbed in, hissing at the slightly too-warm temperature of the water. For all that it felt a little scalding, that was how El always ran his baths. And didn’t that just sound co-dependant as all get out. 

El snorted softly, rolled up his sleeves and tipped cheap shampoo into his hand. “How so?”

“Oh I don’t know…maybe since I’m a grown man getting his hair washed by the same bean-sucker I fucking ran away from, and god knows I haven’t pulled pre-school shit like that since I left home.” Sands’ hands were clenched into fists in his lap. “Maybe because you’re the same dog-fuck that beats the shit out of me…and yes, makes me like it. Maybe it’s just because I should have had this bath a couple of hours ago and the relief of actually bathing is a saddening testimony to my newfound lack of personal hygiene. Take your pick.”

“Why didn’t you do it yourself if it was bothering you?” El’s hands massaged into Sands’ scalp and Sands leaned back into the caress with a moue of distaste at his own enjoyment.

Sands shrugged a little. “Stop asking so many goddamn questions. And don’t get that shit in my eyes.” He paused for a moment then added, “And no cheap-ass comments on that either, or you’ll find you’re missing certain vital parts of your anatomy.”

*~*~*~* 

“Fuck this shit.” Robson had finished his pack of cigarettes half an hour ago and had been irritable and cantankerous ever since. Especially since Balrow wouldn’t stop for more. “Let’s just go to a bar and get blind drunk. Start our search again tomorrow when I don’t feel like ass and you’ve stopped acting like one.”

Balrow opened his mouth to argue and sighed, shoulders slumping a little. “Fine.”

Robson turned, angry. “I’m so sick of your bullshit. Why won’t you just admit we’re walking in circl- I’m sorry, did you say ‘fine’?”

“Yes. So pick a bar and let’s go.”

The bar was loud, and crowded, but Robson, being Robson, had managed to charm his way into a group of women who were now sharing their table and chairs with the two agents. Despite Balrow’s misgivings it wasn’t actually as bad as he’d thought it was going to be.

True, they had no idea where Sands was. True, their main lead had vanished into the night. And true, he was probably going to wind up hauling Robson’s drunk ass back to their room, but still…it was a good place to relax.

//…Fucking crazy bastard.// 

Except for this one, very drunk, very loud female who had been telling the same goddamn story for twenty minutes.

//Both of them, like I had thought it might just be that the white men around here are all fucked up. So like the first one is so fucking beat up, covered in bruises. His face, his ribs, and Christ I could count them, and his neck and hips, everywhere and this other motherfucker is carrying a guitar case demanding to know where the gringo with the sunglasses went. Everyone in this town has gone fucking crazy. Too much tourism.//

Both Robson and Balrow shot to attention at this.

//Where did you meet these men?// Robson’s spoken Spanish was better than Balrow’s and Balrow’s reading and writing was better than Robson’s. It all worked out nicely.

She rolled her eyes and the movement made her sway on her stool. Or at least that’s what it appeared like anyway. //The shithole of a motel next door was where the gringo was staying and the guitar guy took off like a shot once he found out.//

Balrow gave his partner a short nod and the two of them rose, Robson mumbling some bullshit about how sad he was to leave such lovely women and how his heart would break in two without them. More like he’d been looking for a quick fuck, but still, at least the man had his cigarettes and would be vaguely manageable now.

*~*~*~* 

El had been playing his guitar while Sands smoked. One cigarette after another in quick succession and the smoke filled the cheap room, erasing the twin scents of sex and anger. Sands was only clothed in a towel slung loosely around his waist. There had been another, wrapping his hair up, but he had torn it off, cursing about fucking women and their fucking hair-towels and it had stayed on the floor. El kept looking at him out of the corner of his eyes and Sands had barely moved at all since he had sat down. Only his hand moved, back and forth from his lips, so he could drag on the cigarette.

“I can take the floor, if you wish.” El plucked out a tune from the reluctant guitar. 

Sands gave no indication he had heard, staying silent for too long. Then, “No I don’t want, you ass-rat. If I didn’t want you in the bed, then you would be out the door.” 

El sighed and put the guitar down, deciding that it was a bad night for music. //You are a complicated man, Sands.// He worked out the kinks in his hand, grimacing a little at the pull of the old wound. //Put out your smoke and come to bed then.// He stood and made his way over to the somewhat dilapidated bed, stripped off the dirty sheet and tossed it into a corner, along with his own shirt and pants. He smoothed the second sheet down in place of the one he had disposed of and surveyed his work. 

For a long moment Sands just sat there, still not moving. “Have I told you how much I hate you?”

“Yes.”

“In the last half hour?” He stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the towel onto the mess on the floor, seemingly uncaring that he was now completely naked except for his sunglasses. The sunglasses had gone right back on after the bath and he refused to take them off again.

“No.”

Sands’ mouth twisted into a sneer. “Then I’m overdue.” He slid onto the bed and curled up around El, shivering a little. “Christ, get me a blanket or something.”

El sighed. “We’re using the top-sheet as a bottom-sheet.” 

He wrapped his arms around Sands, enveloping the man in all the warmth he had, and Sands settled into the touch. They lay quietly until El suggested that Sands might wish to take his sunglasses off to sleep, since they were poking into him. Sands threw a fit, which ended up with the sunglasses on the night table and El pinning him to the bed, waiting for Sands to tire himself out so he could let go. There were going to be a new set of bruises on Sands’ wrists and one rather fetching graze on El’s cheek from one of Sands’ more lucky swings.

It was a good half hour before Sands stopped fighting. He lay still, exhausted and angry.

“Let go of me bean-fucker,” but his voice was weary. El tentatively lifted his hands and Sands snatched his wrists to his chest, rubbing at them, clearly sulking. “You do know it’s my prerogative to wear sunglasses to bed if I fucking well want?”

El rolled onto his back and pulled Sands back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the tangled hair and stroking soothing patterns down a spine that stuck out a little too much. “I don’t care about your eyes, you know that.”

Sands scowled, tucking his face into the crook of El’s neck and shoulder. “But you’re fucked in the head.”

El tilted Sands’ face up and kissed him. Softly, gently. His fingertips brushed over the rims of the sockets pulling a strangled moan from somewhere deep in Sands’ throat. “Stop trying to provoke something that isn’t there,” El said, and let Sands curl back up around him.

Sands opened his mouth to snark and found that he had nothing to say to that. El’s hands were warm on his body and the heartbeat under his fingertips was solid and real. There was nothing of the illusions and fabrications he had surrounded himself with for the better part of his life. El was El as sure as eggs are eggs- whatever the hell that was supposed to mean- and however much being blind tormented Sands, it didn’t seem to bother El in the least.

It only took a moment for Sands to fall asleep, and if he had been conscious to witness it, he would have been surprised at himself. It was the first time that he had slept without pills, booze or sex to prevent him from dreaming.

*~*~*~*

Lorenzo had been barhopping when he found Fideo, slumped down in a corner. Sheer dumb luck really. He’d been pushed into the corner by some drunk girl bitching loudly about men in general and four in particular. Lorenzo liked his women, but this one had, apparently, been fucked, pushed over and yelled at by the ‘other four’ and he really didn’t want to get in the middle of a disaster zone like that.

//So no luck with Sands then?// Lorenzo said snidely, sliding in to the seat next to Fideo.

Fideo raised his eyebrows and slurped on his drink. //No more than you.// He shrugged. //You know where El is?//

Lorenzo frowned. //No. I’m more worried about that than about the crazy little bastard he’s looking for.// Lorenzo flagged down a waitress and ordered another beer. //Fuck it. He’ll find us again, he’s good at that shit.//

Fideo saluted him in a mock toast and finished off his tequila. //You know, that really looks like the car that was tailing us all the way here.//

Lorenzo craned his neck to see and grimaced. //How long has that been out there?//

//A good couple of hours.//

//God, Fideo, that means those mother fuckers are somewhere around here.//

Fideo shrugged. //So what? I say we go hole up in the motel with a couple bottles of this tequila and wait for them to get back. Or go out. Or something like that.//

Lorenzo gave him a long look. //You just want to sit in a more comfortable room and get shit faced.//

//Whatever works for you.//

*~*~*~* 

Robson pressed the button and the commlink spat out a stream of static. “Oh great. Just fucking great.” He turned around on his chair to wave the little black link at Balrow, who was sitting on the bed, fiddling with one of the gun belts that looked like a mouse had decided to snack on it. “You left the commlinks out in the fucking sun, didn’t you? Don’t tell me I didn’t see them in the back seat of the Vampire, frying in the sun, because I know I did.” 

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Seriously,” Robson snapped. “Listen to this shit. It’s so broken it’s unusable.” He pressed the button and it spewed out its static once more. “What the fuck do we do now?”

Balrow glared at him balefully. “You’re the technical wizard, not me. Deal with it.”

Robson sighed, snacked the commlink against the desk a few times and pressed the button again. Nothing happened. No static, no nothing, dead as a doornail.

“And you said I broke it,” Balrow commented mildly.

The commlink took another few seconds of pounding and this time, when Robson pressed the button there was life. Life and no static. “Robson calling Balrow. Come in Balrow.” His voice came out clearly from the other commlink. “And you doubted me. Oi, pass me that gun over there. I think the catch is sticky.”

Balrow grinned. “This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. There’s no way in hell we’re going to need them all.”

“True,” Robson agreed, lighting a cigarette and holding it between his teeth, breathing out through his nose as he worked on the gun. “But still, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

*~*~*~* 

Sands woke up that morning on his back with El’s head on his shoulder, arm draped over Sands’ chest, fingers fisted in Sands’ hair. Sands sighed and fumbled on the nightstand for his sunglasses. He reached the gun first and picked it up, smoothing the cold metal up to his mouth, tasting the metallic tang of death. He wrapped his lips around it, laving his tongue down the barrel before putting the gun next to El’s temple.

He cocked the gun.

El cracked open one eye. “Are you going to shoot me?”

Sands’ lips were trembling slightly, as were his hands. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

The mariachi opened the other eye and smoothed Sands’ hair back from his face, seemingly indifferent to the gun pressed against his skin. “It’s your decision.” He pressed a soft kiss to Sands’ lips and Sands wondered if he could taste the trace of metal there.

Sands shook his head. “Shut up and let me think.” 

He could very easily pull the trigger, just a simple tensing of muscles, a tiny little jerk. The thick, sweet smell of blood and flesh would surround him, he would be drenched in all kinds of bodily fluids, and the wall would be spattered with El’s memories and dreams. 

On the other hand, El was warm and even Sands had to admit that somehow, despite all the elbows and knees and the way that people can’t just lie together like in the movies because there’s always an extra arm- not a fifth one, just an extraneous arm out of the usual four- they fit together. One of El’s arms curved about Sands’ shoulders, and Sands’ head was in the crook of El’s neck and shoulder, one arm tucked up between them, the other over El’s chest and El’s other arm was tangled in Sands’ hair. Sands curled up around El like his very own pillar of strength because he knew full well that he was just too damn tired to hold himself up any more and everything was just so fucking tiring nowadays.

He shoved El away, rolling out of bed, leaving the gun back on the nightstand and taking his sunglasses with him. Two slow, somewhat aching steps later and he was leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed and head on arms. “I hate you,” he said softly. “I really, fucking hate you.” And he hated how juvenile it sounded too.

“The wallpaper is yellowing,” El said quietly, in a conversational tone and Sands jerked his head up, startled. El came to stand behind Sands, putting his arms around his waist and resting his head on Sands’ shoulder. Sands tipped his head back so they were temple to temple but there was still that tightness to his posture and a hardness around the edges of his mouth. //It used to be green and gold, a pattern of flowers and leaves, very ornate, but now it’s peeling near the ceiling and the gold has faded to yellow and the green too has dimmed.//

Sands’ mouth worked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t come up with anything. El pressed a gentle kiss to those bow lips and the hardness was gone and Sands arched back, pressing their bodies together in one curved line. El lifted a hand to stroke Sands’ hair back from his face and then to gently tug the sunglasses off, tossing them over to land on the bed. Sands ducked his head away, hiding his face with his hair and this time El took his chin in his hand and forced Sands to look at him.

“Don’t touch me like that ratfucker,” Sands snarled, affection gone.

//The sky looks like it is on fire,// El continued, ignoring Sands’ protests. //The clouds sit so low it seems as if you could touch them and the sun is only halfway above the horizon.// Sands turned to face the window again, jaw slack as if he could breathe in the sight, fingertips digging into the window frame. El put his mouth behind Sands’ ear, licking one slick line up the edge before breathing softly on it, making Sands shiver. “The sky is blood red and gold, burning above us.” El leaned in, breath ghosting over the skin of Sands’ cheek before his tongue traced wet lines around the edge of the ruins of Sands’ left eye. Sands mewled and ground back into El, tremors running though his slender frame. 

“I didn’t know you were a poet,” Sands said snidely, but his voice trembled around the edges and he was softening perceptibly in El’s arms.

El smiled and Sands could feel it against his skin, warm as the first dregs of daylight. “I am a musician. Only sometimes I can forget that, without you to remind me.”

Sands snorted, a sound that trailed off into an appreciative purr when El slid his hand between Sands’ legs. “I make you feel poetic? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it.” He sneered even as El massaged the flesh under his hand, even as his hips pushed forward, demanding. “Oh wait, silly me, your pants are on the floor.”

El drew Sands back from the window and abruptly pushed him down onto the bed. Sands yelped as the mattress springs dug up, unforgiving, into his back. Before he could draw breath to properly protest, El was on top of him, straddling his hips and kissing him hard, stealing whatever breath he had managed to get inside him. He arched up into the contact, hands gripping onto El’s forearms to ground him to something.

Then he could hear tearing, cheap cloth ripped into strips, and then those strips were around his wrists, binding him to the headboard and El was pressing down on his hips as a warm mouth licked and nipped up his inner thigh. Sands’ legs twitched apart unconsciously and he bit down hard on his own lip when El’s tongue flicked out to curl around the base of his erection. The only things keeping his hips down were El’s hands and God, if he wasn’t going to be even more bruised after this. A sharp bite to the tender skin just in the curve of his hip and he mewled, tasting blood in his determination not to embarrass himself any further by begging.

El kissed him, sucking on his lower lip, drawing the blood out, thick and hot between them. Sands’ hands twisted around the strips of cloth, he pulled on them and the motion, combined with El’s weight on his lower body, made his spine bow back. Then El’s mouth was on his chest, open-mouthed kisses smearing blood over Sands’ torso.

He was flipped onto his stomach, wrists crossing slightly uncomfortably, and it was all he could do not to just start grinding into the mattress to get some friction. That wasn’t what he wanted though, and when El lifted his hips up, so he was on his knees, cheekbone digging into the bedsprings, he could only whimper his appreciation. Then that hot, slick tongue was over the backs of his thighs and then probing inside of him, the sort of leisurely, wet tonguefuck that made Sands change his mind about how concerned about his dignity he actually was.

Sands tried to come up with coherent demands but all that came out of his mouth was a strangled moan that caught on his breathing and hitched up into a soft keening sound when El withdrew his tongue and curved his body over Sands’. Stomach and chest pressing against Sands’ back, teeth leaving new bruises on his nape, and El pushed his hips forward and slid into Sands, one slow, tight inch at a time. Sands dug his fingers into the sheets and shoved his hips back. The black flashed white and red fireworks and his mouth went slack as El took the hint, took hold of Sands’ hips and began a brutal rhythm that made Sands slip forward on the sheets, enough that El had to curve one arm around his waist. He put it to good use though, stroking Sands, slightly out of time with his thrusts, soft in comparison to the pounding he was giving Sands.

Sands, unable to move too far in either direction, could do nothing more than tremble under the onslaught. He twisted his head around because El was the dark velvet space in between the fireworks and he wanted to see it even as his knees buckled and he was held up by virtue of El’s arm around him. El kissed him, biting down on his lip to re-open the split, and his tongue lapping up the blood that trailed down Sands’ chin was what made the heat coiled in Sands’ abdomen tighten to completion and he cried out, half sob, half moan, coming over El’s hand and his own stomach. El pushed him down into the mattress, the springs rubbing through the cheap fabric and Sands lay boneless under the pounding, each stroke drawing another whimper from him. Then El gripped his hips, fingernails digging sharp half-moons into the pale flesh, and shuddered into him, as warm wetness began to seep down Sands’ thighs.

“Well, shit,” Sands said eloquently, still trying to regain his breath.

El rolled off him, lying on his back and chuckled softly. “I think, for once, we agree.”

Sands shifted, twisting back around so he too was on his back. He scrunched his face into an expression of irritation, which took more effort than he would have liked to admit. “Well now that we’ve reached a state of cohabitation, get up and find something to clean me off with. That, and a decent cup of coffee.”

El kissed him, a simple press of lips this time. “Just for that I’m not untying you.”

And he climbed out of bed, dressed, and left Sands on the bed while he went in search of coffee, sans the sucky under-taste.

*~*~*~* 

He was grinning, an ear-to-ear grin. Not just a little up-turn of the lips like he usually did, but a wide, broad smile. El started to whistle as he made his way back up the stairs, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other hand jammed into his pocket.

He pulled out the keys, and stuck them in the lock, not paying attention to the people coming out of the room next door. Damn lock was sticky, and his hands were full of coffee, and keys, and he bend his head down in concentration.

A bad idea really. Especially since when they brushed by, murmuring an apology, one of them stabbed a hypodermic tranquilizer into his neck.

*~*~*~* 

There were footsteps outside the room that didn’t belong to El and the sounds of a scuffle.

Sands rattled the headboard. “Fuck.” He tugged at the cloth as hard as he could, knowing full well it was an entirely futile gesture. Firstly, El tied damn good knots. Secondly, he didn’t have the strength or leverage to rip the fabric. Thirdly, even if he broke his thumbs he still couldn’t get free because they weren’t cuffs, and you can’t slip your hands out of cloth, broken thumbs or not. He also couldn’t reach his gun tied up in such a way. No matter how limber he was, and he had proved his flexibility time and again, he couldn’t humanly twist about enough to reach it. And come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure as to its location and the last thing he wanted was to be caught crawling about the room naked looking for his gun. That would just be humiliating.

Then again, perhaps not as humiliating as being caught tied to a headboard.

*~*~*~* 

Robson scanned the room. “Cle-” He tried to finish the word, ‘clear’ but he choked on the second part of it. “Oh Jesus.”

Balrow shoved past him. “What the crap, Robson?” He too stopped and stared.

The room was hot and smelt strongly of sex and sweat. Clothing, weaponry and what looked like sheets and towels littered the floor. The piece de résistance however, was the unmade bed.

“Sands?” Robson took a hesitant step forward and choked on his words again.

The agent was naked, save for two strips of cloth that bound his hands to the headboard. Robson could count every rib under pale skin, stretched too tight and he knew that wasn’t the weight that Sands had been at before he’d gone to Mexico. Nor had Sands been covered in bruises the last time he’d seen him. Now there were handprints, finger-shaped bruises on his hips and upper arms, blood on his chest and mouth, bite marks on his neck and semen drying on his stomach and thighs. And, oh god, they had blinded him. No, too kind a word for what was left of Sands’ face. Two eye sockets. Nothing but black holes staring back.

“Mother Mary on a moped.” Sands rattled the headboard. “Are you going to untie me, or do I have to wait another age until you’ve finished gaping? I should have you both reported for being idiots.”

Balrow cleared his throat. “Agent Sands, I’m Agent Balrow and my partner is Agent Robson. Please remain calm, we have apprehended your kidnapper…” He trailed off weakly. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner…”

Robson flicked open one of the knives he was carrying and sliced the bonds on Sands’ wrists away. There was a pattern of bruising there too. Deep purples mixed with greens, yellows and more recent pinks and reds. New bruises, over old bruises, over older bruises.

Sands sat up and pushed his hair out of his face, reaching for the sheet to cover himself with. There was a little moue of distaste on his face as he wrapped the sheet around his waist. “Nice job,” he sneered. “Only I wonder, did it ever occur to you that I am not only a trained member of the CIA, but a hell of a lot smarter than some jingle-jangling mariachi? Did it never cross your minds that the only way someone was going to tie me to a headboard and fuck me is if I let them?” He stood, scooped up his sunglasses and settled them on his nose. 

The tension in the room eased visibly and for some reason that seemed to deflate Sands a little. He slumped back to sit on the bed again, raking fingers through hair that had grown down to his shoulders, a far cry from his pre-Mexico days. 

“Agent Sands, we’re going to have to ask you a few questions…” Balrow, still trying to keep to procedure. 

Robson snorted and lit up a cigarette. To hell with procedure. When you’ve just untied one of the CIA’s better agents from a bed where he’d been blinded and raped, you could ease off a little on the whole paperwork thing.

Sands lifted his head, looking hopeful. “Hey, can I bum one?”

Despite his better judgment, Robson came to sit next to Sands on the bed, placing one of his cigarettes into the man’s hand. He lit it for Sands, mindful of his hair, and waited for the other man to take a drag before laughing, a little tiredly and leaning back. “So what the hell went down then?”

Smoke curled out of Sands’ mouth and nose and he grinned. It was not a happy expression. “Where do you want me to start?”

*~*~*~* 

Balrow shook his head. “No.” 

Robson rolled his eyes and sifted through the pile of firearms on the ground. “Oh come on! He’s bat-shit crazy, but probably harmless.” He hefted one of the Brownings approvingly. “So he’s got no fucking clue what’s been going on and delusions of grandeur…sounds like half the CIA anyway.”

“It’s a classic case of Stockholm syndrome.” Balrow toed at the towels with a little curl of disgust to his lip. “Even you have to see that.”

“The guy did clean up his bullet-wounds.”

Balrow sighed. “So he wouldn’t die. Jesus, Robson, even you had to see that Sands had more needle tracks than a street-walking junkie whore. They drugged him stupid-”

“They kept him alive.”

“And now he thinks they saved him or some shit like that.” Balrow shook his head. “The man has been beaten, raped and held prisoner, and he thinks it’s because he likes it.

Robson shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he does.” He put the gun down and sighed. “Look, Sands was never the most stable of guys. I mean, I sure as hell wouldn’t put it past him. So he’s gay, big fucking deal. So he’s a masochist with no eyes, creepy as all fuck but sure, why not?”

Balrow shook his head again and cast a look at the bathroom where Sands was cleaning himself up. “No. He could compromise the situation because he sides with the mariachi. Langley wants the guitar-playing Mexican, they get him, and they can deal with Sands as they see fit but he is going there in cuffs because I don’t trust the little bastard as far as I can throw him.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Sands came out of the bathroom, fully clothed and looking very much as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Alright. This is getting tedious.” Sands gave them a smile that might have been sincere, but Robson would have bet that if Sands had had eyes, the smile wouldn’t have reached them. “Let’s let the nice mariachi go and I can get out of your hair. Savvy?”

“There’s going to be a couple of complications to that, Sands.” Robson lit another cigarette to calm his nerves.

*~*~*~* 

Lorenzo felt like shit. Probably due to the tequila. Okay, definitely due to the tequila, but that really wasn’t the point now, was it?

The nice, bright, morning sun really wasn’t helping his mood either.

He yawned, scratched his head tiredly and looked up in time to see a black car (with a little bit of smoke curling up from under the hood) speed away from the motel. He looked up in time to see that it was Sands in the front seat and that Sands looked upset, he looked pissed off, and he looked just a little bit panicked. Certainly he was in time to see that it was El in the back seat, and El looked like he was out cold.

Lorenzo felt like shit, and all of a sudden it had nothing to do with tequila at all.

*~*~*~* 

They had put El in the back seat because there was a grate between the front and the back and no one was quite sure how he would react when he woke up. They put Sands in the front seat because they wanted him away from El and because no one really thought that a blind man could cause that much trouble anyway. Sure, he said he’d killed at least three of the other six agents, but he also said that he’d arranged the Day of the Dead coup and that El was actually the closest thing Mexico had to a folk hero at the moment and not just a psycho with a guitar case full of guns. When you put his story together, sure, there were no holes, but it was so full of shit anyway. So they put him in the front seat. Robson drove because it seemed as if he and Sands actually got on all right, whereas Balrow couldn’t stand Sands in the slightest.

Sands had broken the radio, the commlinks (not that they were any use really), and he had just about broken Balrow’s mobile phone before it had been taken away from him and he had been cuffed to the car door.

Now the car was broken down completely and Sands grinned smugly to himself because he hadn’t even had to do anything to delay their little trip to Langley. 

“This car is a piece of crap.” Sands blew smoke out the window, the cigarette generously provided by Robson, despite all of Balrow’s protests. “Have you thought about checking the oil? Or scrapping it all to hell and just getting a new one. Jesus, the CIA has shitty pay, but not this shitty.”

Robson, lounging in his seat chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, cool your jets Sheldon. Once the Vampire has time to let some steam out, she’ll run again.”

Sands stiffened perceptibly. “Don’t call me that.”

Robson was grinning, Sands could just tell, and it made him want to smack the jumped-up little prick but his hands were cuffed to the car and El groaned in the backseat and he was twisting around to see. 

“Leave him be,” Robson said. “He’ll wake up in his own sweet time...Sheldon.”

Sands snarled, trying not to crush the cigarette in his irritation. “Fuck you David, you fucking, dog-sucking ass-jack.” He twisted again, wishing he could see if El was all right, because for all his bravado, he was worried. “Hey, El. Fuckmook. Wake the hell up.”

No reply.

Balrow, out in front of the hood of the car, let out a triumphant noise. “Alright, let’s get this freak show on the road,” he called out.

Sands grit his teeth and turned to face Robson. “Look, Robson, David…I know I’ve been a pain in the ass, so how’s about I go and sit in the back?” He sucked up his pride and tried to look as helpless and pathetic as possible, knowing full well that he probably pulled it off pretty well, considering his current state. “Please?”

Robson shrugged. “Well you know I don’t give a good goddamn…Balrow?”

“If it keeps him occupied and out of my hair.” Balrow sighed. “Fine.”

An hour later and Sands knew that Balrow was regretting his decision. He also didn’t care.

//How are you feeling?// Sands had his head tucked up under El’s chin and was pretty much sitting in his lap. //I can see if I can get you some water or something.// Jesus, this was sickening how much he was worried about El. Sands gave himself a mental slapping. Co-dependence bad; hadn’t that been the whole point of the exercise?

El shrugged. //Groggy but all right.// He slipped his own cuffed hands over Sands’ shoulders to draw him closer. //What about you?//

Sands ran his tongue over the underside of El’s jaw, considering his answer. //I’ve been less humiliated before, but I’m holding up.// He made a little purring sound when El’s hands slipped up under the back of his shirt to splay out, just touching, not moving at all.

Balrow banged on the grate. “Keep it in your pants, Sands, I don’t want to see that shit.”

Sands ground down on El’s lap, ignoring the fact that neither of them were hard and knowing that the action itself would be enough to piss Balrow off. He knew irony when he saw it. Running away, deciding that he didn’t want to be away and then having to defend that choice not a day later. He knew irony when he saw it; it didn’t mean he had to like it.

The Vampire broke down again.

*~*~*~* 

Sands had shouted himself almost hoarse. His voice was as raw as his wrists, bruised and bleeding on the handcuffs, too tight for the thumb breaking trick and too tight for the way he was throwing himself against them, raging at the wall across from him. Cheap dirty wall in another cheap dirty motel, just letting the Vampire cool off in the shade whilst Robson and Balrow took care of business.

“Fuck you both!” Heavy rasping breath and a cough that made him feel blood just beneath the surface, as if one more rasp and he would be bleeding. “God damn you, you goat-fucking rat-bastards. He doesn’t know anything.”

They had handcuffed him to a chair and left him there to wait while they interrogated El.

He was crazy. Post traumatic stress, Stockholm syndrome, psychopathic. Robson and Balrow didn’t even consider that he might actually know something about what was going on and that he wasn’t just raving. After all, how could blind man hotwire a car into blowing two excellent agents into Kingdom Come? How could someone who had gone through the trauma of losing his eyes and being held prisoner possibly have a shred of rationale? 

So now he could do nothing more than face the wall, trying not to hear the soft, muted sounds of interrogation, the thuds of blows, the low tones of talking. 

And El didn’t know a damn thing.

He was the one who had set them up - maybe not watched them fall per se - heard them fall.

Another muffled thud and Sands jerked so hard on the cuffs that bound him to the chair that he managed to knock the chair over. He wound up on the floor, chair heavy on his back, shoulder wrenched uncomfortably underneath him.

He screamed his frustration and this time when he coughed dryly it hurt and he could taste blood.

The door banged open and he sneered up at Robson. Or he assumed it was Robson, judging by the underlying scent of smoke that wafted around that man like his own personal aura. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Definitely Robson. “Jesus Christ, Sands.” Impatient hands pulled him upright again, checking him for injuries as if he were no more than a vase that had toppled over and might be cracked. “Right, I’m so fucking sick of your bullshit.”

Steps going away, steps coming back and Robson’s fingers dug into his jaw, prizing his mouth open and something that tasted suspiciously like a balled up sock was shoved in his mouth and then duct-tape was secured over the top.

“Oh fuck it.” Robson rustled around again and this time un-cuffed Sands, held him down and bandaged up his wrists before cuffing him back to the chair. “Look, do me a favor, Sands. For half an hour, could you try not to be a psychopathic nut job and just keep out of trouble?”

Sands twisted in his chair enough to give Robson the finger.

Robson laughed, and left.

If he wasn’t so angry, Sands might have wanted to cry.

*~*~*~* 

El didn’t struggle as they cuffed him to the chair. There was no point as he didn’t really know the condition that Sands was in. He’d heard him raging from behind the wall, heard the thuds and the shouting and wasn’t prepared to abandon Sands for freedom’s sake. When they went, they went together. That, and both Robson and Balrow were heavily armed, and he felt less than great.

Sands was slumped in his own chair, breathing ragged and face hidden by his hair.

//Are you awake, Gatito?// 

Sands lifted his head to face El, hair sliding back out of the way and nodded, a bit pointless because surely just looking up was enough to indicate that he was actually alert. He would have smiled if he’d been able to, but them’s the breaks, right? 

El saw the gag and his hands curled into impotent fists. He wanted so say something, some kind of reassurance, but to be fair, he was tired and fresh out of ideas. They sat silently for a few moments after that. Until Sands sighed, a huff of resignation through his nose and began the laborious task of clawing the bandages off his wrists.

El frowned, not happy with the fact that Sands had needed bandaging in the first place. //Gatito, what are you doing?// 

Sands shook his head. “It’s a good thing I don’t have any pride left,” he said tiredly. Only it came out as gagged mumblings so he sighed again and dropped the cloth to the floor, bit down on the spit-soaked sock in his mouth and wrenched the thumb of his left hand out of its socket. He whimpered through the gag, breathing heavily for several long moments while El, just a little upset, demanded to know what the hell was going on. Sands slid his hand gingerly out of the cuff, glad that Robson was apparently too stupid to realize that by cuffing over the bandage he had left room for Sands to perform such a basic maneuver. 

He slid the cuffs around, rolling his shoulders to ease the kinks out of them, and ripped the duct-tape off his mouth. “Fuck,” he spat. “Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck.” He stood, wavering a little on his feet, and stumbled over to where El was sitting before collapsing on his lap, curling up as best he could, cradling his injured hand and prodding at El with his good one, handcuffs jangling from his wrist. “How badly did they rough you up?”

El pressed kisses to Sands’ hair and forehead, arms straining uselessly against his own cuffs. “You are a stupid, stupid man.” But his voice belied his concern. “You have to reset that before-”

“I know what I have to do bean-fucker,” Sands said, mouthing along the curve of El’s jaw. “And you didn’t answer my goddamn question.” He pressed himself closer, hands insinuating themselves inside El’s clothing, not sexual in the slightest, just maneuvering for skin on skin. “I could hear it, you know?”

“Gatito…” El captured Sands’ mouth with his own, drawing a ragged sigh from Sands. “Gatito, get them in here and have them relocate it, please.”

Sands snorted in disbelief, fingers prodding into El’s ribs, testing for bruises and finding several. Great, now they’d match. “I didn’t dislocate it just so they could fix it, jackass. Besides, I can still hold a gun.” He tried to prove his point by gripping the side of the chair with just his fingers but his face twisted up in pain and he flinched into El. “Well, okay, I can do it, but I’d rather not, y’know?”

Abruptly he slid off El’s lap and crawled around to the back of the chair, fingers of his good hand testing the setup of the cuffs. 

El turned to watch, smiling a little at the concentration on Sands’ face. There was a single-minded intensity there that was somewhat reassuring. //What’s your verdict?//

Sands licked the inside of El’s wrist. “We’re fucked, unless you feel like fucking up your thumb too, and then we’d be fucked anyway because neither of us have any weapons.”

El’s lips curved up into a smile, that if Sands had been able to see, he might have envied. //If you can get the cuffs off me without breaking any fingers, there’s enough furniture in this room to use as bludgeoning tools.//

“I’m not a fucking miracle worker, El.” Sands bit lightly on the skin he had previously licked. 

The doorknob turned and both men started. Sands moved first, sliding across the floor to grab his abandoned chair, cursing profusely, and swung it at the man walking though the door. The chair splintered and broke over Balrow’s head and he dropped to the floor with a yowl. A sound that was echoed by Sands, as he clutched at his hand convulsively. Then Sands was on top of Balrow, teeth bared and gritted hard enough that El swore he could hear them grinding, and they were fighting for the gun sticking out of Balrow’s shoulder holster. 

Robson came careening around the corner and the fight halted almost instantly. Sands’ good hand wrapped around Balrow’s throat and his injured hand gripped tightly in Balrow’s. Balrow’s other hand was around the wrist of Sands’ good hand, trying to fend him off, and Robson had his gun to Sands’ head. 

“Alright now, Sheldon, real slow, I want you to take your hands off him.”

Sands hissed like an aggrieved cat, but eased his hands back. The angle to his thumb was worse now than before. “Sands, you monkey fucker,” he spat. “The name is Sands.”

And that was enough of a break in the tension to qualify as a distraction so El swung to his feet, chair dragging behind him by the cuffs and spun around to smack the chair against Robson.

It wasn’t a sound plan, especially since he managed to hit Sands as well as Robson and the gun fired somewhere in all the confusion. El didn’t stop to think about what that might mean, instead bringing the chair down on Balrow who had started to reach for his gun. There was a sickening crunch underneath his foot and Sands made an unholy noise, somewhere between a scream and a sob. El stumbled backwards, falling over one of Balrow’s legs and winding up on the floor.

The tableau was somewhat ridiculous. Robson, staggered back against the doorjamb, had a bullet hole in his leg; apparently he’d managed to shoot himself when El slammed into him, and he was breathing heavily. Balrow was groaning softly, his head bleeding and not looking like he was going to get up any time soon. Sands was on his knees, curled up around his injured hand and his lip was split again. There was a stream of blood running from one of his eye sockets. El was struggling to right himself, but was unable to do so, considering the angle his arms were at and the way the chair was now bent to press into his back, rendering any sort of bend and stand impossible.

Then Sands lunged at Balrow and Robson went for Sands, and this time El could see Sands’ fingers go under Robson’s boot and the pain on his face as he was yanked back by the hair, leaving him with only the hand with the dislocated thumb, and a seemingly broken second finger - blame that on El’s misstep - to grab Balrow’s gun.

Everyone froze again. 

Sands’ managed to keep the gun pressed against Balrow’s face, even though the twist to his lips showed how much that gesture cost him. “Get off me,” he snarled and Robson let go of his hair and stepped back off his hand. It looked like several more of his fingers were broken now too. “You mother fucking, ass monkeys couldn’t just let us go, could you?” And he pulled the trigger.

Or, at least he tried to. His broken finger wouldn’t perform the action and it drew a ragged whine of pain and anger from him. Even as he tried to switch trigger fingers, Robson had his gun up again and back against Sands’ head.

There was a second, then a third, click of a gun being cocked and Lorenzo flashed white teeth from the doorway. “Looks like I’m right on time, amigos.” 

Sands put his gun down and kicked it away towards El, as Fideo eased his way into the room, took Robson’s gun and helped El up.

“Shoot him, God damn it,” Sands hissed, once again curling up around his abused hands. “Before I push him over and start kicking him to death.”

Robson’s eyes were calm and a little tired, hands behind his head, he dropped to his knees. The standard position to be shot in the back of the head. Lorenzo looked down at him and looked over at El for verification. 

//You sure we want to kill CIA?//

El flinched ever so slightly when Fideo shot the cuffs off the chair, then went down on his knees to gather Sands into his arms. Sands whimpered and curled closer and El’s mouth thinned into a hard line. //I have a better idea.//

*~*~*~* 

CASE: SJS-M/654564  
DATE OPENED: 11/05/03  
DATE CLOSED: 14/08/04  
AGENTS: Michael Balrow, David Robson  
SUBJECT: Culiacan, Mexico  
STATUS: Closed

Deaths of Import:  
William Chambers, case # AM-R/657465  
Miquel Marquez: case # MC-C/157654  
Cameron Guevera, case # MC-C/168746  
Barillo, case # MC-C/65465  
Eva Ajedrez, AFN Agent  
Carl Fischer, case # SJS-M/654564  
Gloria Campbell, case # SJS-M/654564  
Jonathon Detrick, case # SJS-M/654564  
Samuel Fite, case # SJS-M/654564  
Robert Carson, case # SJS-M/654564  
Carl Bowers, case # SJS-M/654564  
Sheldon Jeffery Sands, case # SJS-M/654564

Documents Attached: Certificate of deaths, crime scene photos, final report.

*~*~*~*

Robson lit up a cigarette the second he and Balrow were outside. He leaned heavily against the wall, taking the weight off his healing leg, and sighed happily, exhaling smoke. “So, two months off. I still think we should have gotten a promotion out of this.”

Balrow shrugged. “Maybe. I’m just glad they bought that crock.”

A snort of agreement. “Well, good luck to the crazy little shit, for what it’s worth.” He yawned and took another drag. 

The car waiting for them was characterless, boring, standard. But it ran in daylight and, as Balrow started up the engine, that was all that mattered. 

*~*~*~*

His hands were two big, white bundles of bandages and splints. Considering that five out of ten fingers were broken, and El was disinclined to have Sands picking at his wounds he had simply wrapped up each broken finger, reset Sands’ thumb and bound the whole mess up into what looked like mittens made of bandages. Bandages that rendered Sands completely useless, and therefore incredibly irritable.

Sands dropped the spoon, fumbled about on the table for it and cursed. “God damn it, El. Stop fucking around and help me.” His voice trailed off into a disgusted mutter. “I can’t see shit, I can’t feel shit…ram a fucking pencil in my ears and let’s go for the gold.”

El sighed, leaned down and kissed the protests away. Kisses that quickly turned more amorous than initially intended and Sands found himself bent over the table wishing he could just touch but mindful of the little spasms his fingers made every time he jarred them.

It was Lorenzo and Fideo’s misfortune to walk in as El was pressed into Sands, both half-clothed, and Sands was glaring at the intrusion even as he mewled pathetically at the latest thrust.

“So…” Lorenzo turned and walked right back out the way he’d come. “I hear there’s a really nice bar down the street. Eight o’clock is a reasonable time to start drinking.”

Fideo’s eyes were wide and they weren’t getting any smaller. “And keep drinking until the images go away,” he muttered. “Until I don’t have to see that in my head any more.”

Sands lounged back on the table, still shuddering from the comedown and El’s hand, stroking over his ass, and smiled to himself. “How long before they use this table again?” he grinned.

El slapped the flesh under his hand lightly. “Loco Gatito,” he said fondly.


End file.
